


i'd probably still adore you with your hands around my neck

by tsunderestorm



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-16
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-31 09:50:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8573668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: (at least I did, last time I checked.)
Jesse knows he shouldn't like it when Reaper curls his hands around his throat. That doesn't stop him.





	

“I remember,” Reaper says as his hand finds McCree’s neck. “You _like_ this.”

He arches under it; welcoming, grateful. It’s different from before; skin once warm is cold as the grave, calloused fingers have been replaced with scratched leather gloves, clawed tips nicking the skin like fresh razor blades, blinding sharp. McCree feels one graze his neck, feels it cut through skin like a hot knife to butter and the fact that he can smell the tang of his own blood in the air makes the building high of oxygen deprivation even sweeter, makes his dick even harder.

Hell yeah, he likes it it. He’s always had a _thing_ for the way it feels when Gabe cuts off his air flow, one swift motion controlling him. Maybe it’s that his favorite dance partner is the devil or maybe he and death have walked too close and never touched, like star-crossed lovers but _goddamn_ does he get off on the knowledge that Gabe could kill him without breaking a sweat. It’s always been that way; McCree has always come harder if Gabe squeezes a hand just this side of too-tight around his neck, if Gabe fills his throat up with so much cock he can’t breathe.

McCree tries to speak and can manage only a small choked sound, breathless and strangled. _Yes,_ he means to say, _yes I fuckin’ love it_ but all he can do is nod. Enthusiastically, vigorously, until his chin bumps Reaper’s tense fist and that makes him squeeze tighter, somehow. It hurts, burns in the best way possible and his vision is swimming and his thoughts have narrowed to nothing but the way Reaper’s knee is rubbing between his legs and how bad he wants _more_.

Reaper releases his hold just before he blacks out and McCree gasps for breath. Great, greedy gulps of air, so much it _hurts_ , it burns his lungs and he can’t see anything but Reaper’s eyes, blood-soaked brown glinting from behind the hollows of that mask he wears now and they’re unreadable.

“Yeah,” he pants, bringing a hand to rub at his neck where he can feel bruises blossoming like flowers, black and blue and dappled with angry, wet lines of blood. He’s humping up against the thick wall of Reaper’s body, cock dragging obscene splotches of precum over his pants, aching for some friction, for _more_. “Yeah, goddamn, _love_ that, you were always so good to me, always knew just how to work me - “

Reaper’s hand is back around his neck in a heartbeat, his voice a low growl, a death rattle. “ _Shut up_.”

McCree swallows as best he can, a laborious effort past the tight squeeze of Reaper’s fist around it. Slowly, he nods again, fighting to still the buck of his hips. There’s silence, stillness in the room as Reaper’s fingers flex, un-flex. Tighten, loosen, watch the way McCree’s eyes go glassy and black, pupils blown wide.

“You never could shut up when you were close,” Reaper says and god _damnit_ , it hurts to hear that. Between the too-tight squeeze of his hand and the effort of keeping his hands fisted in the sheets instead of scrabbling at Reaper’s hold he’s shaking with effort, shaking with need and desperation and his cock so hard that rutting against Reaper’s muscular thigh isn’t even doing him any good at this point, it just _hurts_.

He gets off on that, too, so he lets Reaper’s fingers leave four identical scratch marks at the back of his neck as he holds it, lets the pain blossom like a spiderweb of cracks on a surface before it surrenders to pleasure, before he’s coming with a strangled groan rubbing against Reaper’s thigh. Riding it out until he’s humping nothing but air, because the hand around his throat and the body he’d know even if he was blind, deaf and dumb is gone as soon as he comes, vanished into wispy tendrils of ink-black smoke.


End file.
